


Still Falling For You

by Lehua



Series: Miniature Disasters [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Complete, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 06:49:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9808022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lehua/pseuds/Lehua
Summary: And his mind finally wandered to the impossible detective, the heat emanating from the mad genius’s temple as John pressed his lips against the man who was reading a book to his little girl.





	

John was half way to the clinic before he realized what he’d done this morning.

Sherlock had gotten into the habit of sneaking into John and Rosie’s room sometime before John needed to get up for his shift at the clinic, giving John time to sleep in until his alarm. The first time this happened John was frantic until he found Rosie on the floor playing with blocks and Sherlock in his chair with John’s laptop. “Mine’s in my room,” Sherlock said without looking up.

It took John another moment to realize they were talking about the laptop and not the child. John opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and about-faced to get ready for the day. Sherlock said nothing more as John packed up, nuzzled Rosie until she giggled, and set off to work.

They fell into a pattern: Sherlock would take Rosie on the mornings John needed to work and they never talked about it. If Sherlock needed to go out before John woke on a work day, he’d pass Rosie off to Mrs. Hudson downstairs. The first time this happened John had run through the flat yelling until Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs with a crying Rosie. “John, what is the matter?” Mrs. Hudson had chided.

John’s heart started to beat again as he took the crying child and soothed her. “I couldn’t find Rosie,” he said as he cradled his child’s head and gave her soft kisses.

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips. “Sherlock dropped her off this morning, said he needed to dash off to NSY for a case.”

John’s heartbeat began to slow as Rosie hiccupped and burrowed her head against his neck; he bounced a bit, continuing to calm her. His eyes searched every surface for a note, but he didn’t think it would be likely he’d find one. He rolled his eyes as his phone pinged with a text from Sherlock:

Rosie with Mrs. H. SH

“Idiot,” John muttered, though he wasn’t one hundred percent sure if he meant Sherlock or himself.  

Rosie’s cheeks were streaked with tears as she stared at him with her thumb in her mouth. “I’m sorry, Rosie,” he said to her, kissing her forehead. “Daddy went a little crazy when he couldn’t find you this morning.” He looked up at Mrs. Hudson. “Sorry. Sherlock didn’t tell me he’d be gone this morning.”

Mrs. Hudson reached for Rosie who went willingly. “No worries, love. Pretty sure he didn’t know he was going out this morning either. He was a bit frantic, bringing everything Rosie would need downstairs, as if I couldn’t just come up here and watch her.”

The corners of John’s mouth turned up as he pictured the genius gathering up all of Rosie’s favorite things, shoving them in a bag, and bounding down the stairs with the baby, fretting a little before leaving Rosie in Mrs. Hudson’s capable hands. “I really should sort out a daycare situation.”

Mrs. Hudson waved away his comment. “Sherlock would get into a right snit if you did that. Besides, I’m here and I can take her when you’re both off at work or adventuring.”

“Mrs. Hudson,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “I can’t expect you to take care of Rosie every time I’m in need of a sitter. I really should have found a suitable caretaker for Rosie when I moved back in, but I let it go because Sherlock seemed to want to take on the roll, at least for a little bit. But I can’t expect Sherlock’s life to revolve around Rosie,” _which I had because Sherlock and I never talk about these things_ , he finished privately in his head.

Mrs. Hudson patted him on the shoulder. “Let him do this for you. Sherlock never does anything he doesn’t want to do; he’ll tell you if he can’t. Besides, “she continued as she walked back downstairs, “who better to take care of Rosie? I’m sure he’s read up on everything to do with raising a child and is probably better versed than either you or I.” She paused and looked over her shoulder. “Not to mention he’d probably scare off anyone you found anyway.”

John conceded her point and never talked about the incident with Sherlock.

They had continued in this pattern until this morning. John was pulling his jumper down over his waist when he found a rumpled, blue-robed Sherlock sitting at the table with Rosie in his lap, the little girl running her hands over the pictures in a book he was reading aloud. John smiled, made breakfast, and watched them. As he was about to leave he walked behind Sherlock, balancing his arm on the chair back so he could kiss Rosie on her crown, taking a moment to breathe in her warm baby smell, then turned and kissed Sherlock on the temple and left. He’d bounded down the stairs with a hurried goodbye and out was the door.  

As his body swayed side-to-side on the train, he closed his eyes and relaxed a bit, letting his mind wander. Rosie was growing up too quickly; he’d have to look into buying her larger clothes soon. His job was going as well as could be expected, considering he was living with Sherlock again; John wasn’t quite as reliable as he’d been…before, with Mary…but he’d found a nice balance between cases with Sherlock and work. And his mind finally wandered to the impossible detective, the heat emanating from the mad genius’s temple as John pressed his lips against the man who was reading a book to his little girl.

His eyes snapped open.

John had kissed Sherlock and then dashed off to work. Had Sherlock’s voice stuttered with the unexpected action? John didn’t know because he hadn’t really been paying attention. He’d been so grateful that his family seemed content. With all the shit that had happened over the last several years, finding this moment of peace seemed like an incredible gift.

And now the happy moment was derailed and crashing and burning as the train pulled into the station. John now felt buffeted by the people around him, hunching his shoulders in as if to protect himself from prying eyes. A glance at his phone said Sherlock hadn’t texted him. John wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

Since Mary’s death and everything that came after—serial killers and long-lost psychotic sisters—John and Sherlock had finally reached an easy peace. John had finally gotten all the emotions he’d dammed behind a wall of silence out and into the open. Sherlock’s death had taken a giant piece of his heart, and Sherlock’s eventual return didn’t heal the fracture: it exacerbated the insecurities John was holding close to his heart in the wake of Sherlock’s faked suicide. Intellectually, he knew why Sherlock had done it and why John needed to be kept in the dark, but it still hurt. Had he not proven himself to be a good ally? He and Sherlock had risked death and dismemberment so many times over their short friendship, but in the moment that really counted, Sherlock had locked him out.

John died when he saw Sherlock’s dead body on the pavement. He waited for a time, even after the funeral, expecting Sherlock to pop up and say it was a ruse, that it had been needed to flush out Moriarty’s crew but it was all good now and did he want to help him with a new case for the NSY? And after punching that smug smile off the idiot genius’s face, he’d say yes and life would begin again.

But it didn’t. And he wouldn’t have made it if Mary hadn’t forced the issue—Mary who was smart and kind, who had reminded John a little bit of Sherlock in unguarded moments when her mind would turn and spark against his, making his blood rush in a melancholy remembrance of the man and friend he’d lost on that day long ago

Was he thinking of Mary when he’d kissed Sherlock?

Towards the end things had been better with Mary, but not enough. She’d shot Sherlock—had killed him—and while John had paid lip service about forgiveness, he really just couldn’t do it. She had shot Sherlock and simultaneously called an ambulance, actions that don’t cancel each other out, especially because Sherlock really did die on the operating table. The only reason Sherlock survived was because his idiot genius was so damned stubborn. _His?_ Yes, his. Sherlock had been his idiot genius since John had killed that demented cabbie. And that had been the crux of his problem with Mary: Sherlock was his and she’d tried to take him away again.

But before anything could be resolved, Mary was dead, and now his rage fell onto Sherlock, who had promised to take care of John and Mary on their wedding day. Mary took a bullet meant for Sherlock in the chest and had died in John’s arms. And all the rage John had been feeling about his failing life coalesced into an arrow he shot straight at Sherlock: “anyone but you” was the message he gave Molly to pass on to Sherlock. John would take comfort from anyone but Sherlock because it was Sherlock’s fault Mary was dead, it was Sherlock’s fault Rosie would grow up without her mother, it was Sherlock’s fault Johns life lay in tatters at his feet. The great Sherlock Holmes never fails…until he did, and the image built up in John’s mind shattered.

It was Mary who saved him again, saved them both this time. What had been going through her mind when she made those videos? “High-functioning sociopath,” Sherlock used to proclaim himself to be, had in fact proclaimed it to Magnussen before shooting the bastard in the head, but compared to Mary, Sherlock was a never-ending cornucopia of feelings. Mary had thought ahead and mapped out a way to save John from himself—and to save Sherlock too in the process. She made that video for her rival—something John hadn’t failed to see now that it had been pointed out to him by his dead wife—because in the end, Mary was a fan of John and Sherlock too, and her love for John transcended even death.  

He hadn’t deserved the last gift from his dead wife: a new beginning with Sherlock. Had Mary known it would end this way? Sometimes he thought she had sacrificed herself to finally gain the forgiveness that John hadn’t really been able to give. Had she known his affection for her was waning? Had she known about the other woman? Of course she did; maybe not the particulars, but she’d known something was wrong. And she’d kept pressing on, infiltrating his life with Sherlock, who had—miracle of miracles—forgiven Mary for shooting him (he’d been surprised Mycroft hadn’t had her killed after everything came out into the open). John had been happy—and a little bit jealous—Sherlock and Mary got on so well; maybe time would have healed the rift between himself and Mary, but that was never meant to be.

So had he been thinking of Mary this morning? He remembered mornings just after Rosie’s birth, Mary sitting at the kitchen table nursing a sleepy Rosie. A kiss for his child and kiss for his wife before leaving for work, his heart beating a happy staccato. The happiness was always short-lived--he’d be temperamental by the time he returned home—but for a few moments everyday everything was good; those were the memories he loved best with Mary.

He hadn’t been thinking of Mary this morning when he’d kissed Sherlock. There had been a time not too long ago when looking at Sherlock would bring Mary to mind, but Mary’s ghost had pretty much buggered off when he’d confessed in front of Sherlock to his dead wife about wanting more than what she’d been able to give him. Sherlock had hugged him a bit awkwardly, but the touch of Sherlock’s hand on his neck had spoken of forgiveness and understanding, and he’d been able to let it all go. Things had been easier between them from then.

And then the whole Eurus debacle happened and John had seen just how much Sherlock had changed since he’d returned from the Fall, and he’d been amazed at the new depths he’d seen in Sherlock as he dealt with each situation one-by-one as his psychotic sister and dead nemesis tortured them in new ways. The mad genius who had claimed to have no friends when they’d first met now needed to break the heart of a woman who loved him in a way he was unlikely to return; the woman who had kept his secret even from John; the woman who could see through all his bullshit and loved him anyway. John had watched in mild surprise as Sherlock had vented all his rage on the coffin, and then sat, broken, among the debris. John had extended his hand and said, “Soldiers.”

And when Eurus forced Sherlock to choose between Mycroft and John, Sherlock had surprised him again….hell, even Mycroft had surprised him after Sherlock explained Mycroft’s motivation. When had John earned this regard from the world’s only consulting detective? And when had Mycroft become a human being instead of a robot? And then Sherlock had turned the gun on himself and John felt the world drop out from under him again. Eurus was faster than either of them, sedating them before Sherlock could pull the trigger.

At the end of things, with Eurus caught and John warmed, Sherlock continued to surprise him by visiting Eurus who had gone into a fugue state, reaching out to her with his violin, and she responded with music, but never words. John watched as Sherlock repaired all the damage he’d caused with Molly, and saw Greg’s face when Sherlock actually remembered his name, and heard the catch in Sherlock’s voice when his parents turned to him for advice about Eurus, because “he was always the grown up.”

Yes, Sherlock had changed, but he could still be the same insufferable stroppy git that John had first fallen in love with. _In love?_ Yes, love. John wasn’t gay, wasn’t bi either, but he was in love with his best friend, who was a man, the only man he’d ever appreciated in that way. And Sherlock was in love with him, John knew, at least since his return. When had it turned to romantic love? John had realized his feelings for Sherlock were more than friendship on his wedding day, as Sherlock gave his best man speech, which was really a love letter to John and was endlessly amusing to Mary. He’d seen the look on Sherlock’s face later as he’d danced with Mary while Sherlock played a piece he’d composed for John and Mary, felt his absence when Sherlock left the reception early, recognized the ache of loss when Sherlock quietly exited his life so John and Mary could find equilibrium in this new domestic life. How different would life have been if Sherlock had never left?

 

_Madness lies that way_ , he thought later, after pulling a double shift because the ER was understaffed.

He spent most of the day mulling over the facts as he diagnosed and prescribed treatment for all his patients. The first shift was spent at the clinic in his shared office, going from one appointment to another until he’d been asked to cover a shift at the ER, which he readily agreed to without contacting Sherlock. He felt a bit guilty as he’d texted his flat mate.

Double shift tonight. Can you watch Rosie? JW

Yes. Experiments need attention, so I will be home all day. SH

Sorry. Short notice. JW

There was a pause before Sherlock responded.

No problem. SH

The pause had been a bit worrying: Sherlock was decisive all the time. John had found himself holding his breath before Sherlock’s last text, and when it came he let out a whoosh loud enough to startle the nurse behind the counter. Why the pause? He could imagine Sherlock staring at his phone, unable to comprehend John’s apology. He’d expected Sherlock to tell him to stop being an idiot, so he wasn’t surprised when another text came right after.

Stop being an idiot. SH

He laughed and saw the nurse swivel her the chair, her eyebrows raised. “Messaging my partner about the baby since I’m pulling a double,” he said.

“How long have you been married?” she asked as she handed him several charts.

“I’m not,” he said as he unconsciously spun the wedding ring on his left finger while reading through the first chart. He saw her staring at his wedding ring and he flushed, his cheeks turning red. “Widower,” he replied with a tight smile.

The nurse’s expression softened and she patted him on the hand. “How old is your baby?”

John was grateful for the topic change; hearing condolences for Mary had a tendency to send him into melancholy. With his phone still out, he pulled up a recent picture of Rosie and Sherlock, presenting it to the duty nurse. “A little over 18 months.”

Her eyes scanned the picture. “Your partner?” she asked.

Sherlock and Rosie had been giggling one night as John had dragged himself up the stairs after a long day at the clinic. He’d watched them for several minutes, leaning against the door frame as they whispered and giggled, Sherlock’s back turned to him. Rosie saw him first and made grabbing motions. John pulled out his phone as Sherlock turned and caught Sherlock in mid-laugh, his eyes widening slightly as the flash went off. Then he whispered to Rosie and his little girl had giggled some more. “What’s this?” John said as he took Rosie in his arms and hugged her close.

Sherlock’s eyes danced. “It’s a secret.”

“You know she’s only 18 months; she won’t remember anything.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth turned up. “You’d be surprised at the things she can remember,” he’d replied as he turned away, laughing with Rosie, perhaps at John. Rosie chose to bury her face in John’s neck then and John took his heart upstairs to change her and perhaps read her a book before putting her down for the night.

John was dragged back to the present by a gentle clearing of a throat. “Yes,” he said, taking his phone and putting it back in his trouser pocket. He smoothed his hands down his pants, a nervous tick he’d developed since leaving the military.

“Cute family,” the duty nurse said with a small smile, and then returned to her work.

John now found himself standing outside the flat on 221B Baker Street. It was passed midnight and he was dithering on the doorstep, his hands clenching and unclenching. Why was he nervous? Nothing had changed. This morning he’d woken up knowing he was in love with Sherlock, knowing Sherlock returned his feelings, that everything was fine as they were. Could a chaste kiss change the dynamic of a relationship so drastically in a matter of hours? Had Sherlock been in turmoil all day as well? He hadn’t seemed like it, though text messages were not a good indicator of Sherlock’s mood; Sherlock was efficient in almost everything he did. If Sherlock had a problem about this morning, then he’d either be in his room or gone from the flat and since the light was still on in the flat, Sherlock was probably up there working on an experiment. John took a deep breath and steeled himself for a possible confrontation.

Taking the steps one at a time, John found the door actually closed, meaning there could be a rogue baby wandering the floor. He opened it cautiously and peered around the door, but there was no baby coming to attack his legs. Instead he found Sherlock and Rosie lying on the sofa, Sherlock’s hands clasped as if in prayer and Rosie sleeping on his chest, drool leaking from her mouth onto Sherlock’s dress shirt. John stood over them and watched for a moment. Sherlock was awake, but just not totally aware yet; John was mildly envious of the other man’s ability to sink so fully into his own mind.

“Problem?” Sherlock said without opening his eyes.

“No,” John replied as he took Rosie, revealing the puddle of drool on Sherlock’s shirt. John grimaced. “Sorry.”

Sherlock’s eyes opened and John’s breath almost caught in his throat; sometimes Sherlock’s eyes could catch him unaware, the color of the sclera and the length of the lashes pulling him into Sherlock’s gaze. Automatically John’s gaze flickered to Sherlock’s lips then back to his eyes, and then he deliberately looked at the wet spot on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock looked down and frowned, then dismissed the whole thing with a wave of his hand. “Natural bodily function,” he says, getting up from the sofa and moving toward the kitchen.

John followed, a groggy Rosie leaning on his shoulder. “That’s why we have the cloths; people don’t usually like having baby drool all over their nice shirts.”

Sherlock looked down at his shirt again. “Is this a nice shirt?” John opened his mouth, but Sherlock waved the words away. “Still doesn’t matter, though if it makes you feel better I’ll use the cloth thingy’s next time.”

“Thingy’s?” John said as he watched Sherlock pull take out of the fridge.

Sherlock dumped food on a plate and put in the microwave. “You know what I mean, John,” he said, and John could see him rolling his eyes despite having his back turned.

John chuckled. “Hungry?” he said.

Sherlock turned and stared, an odd expression on his face that John couldn’t place. “Have you eaten?” Sherlock asked.

Confused, John replied, “No.”

If John hadn’t been watching Sherlock so closely, he would have missed the look of relief on his face. _Odd._ The microwave dinged at that moment and Sherlock drew the plate out, grabbed a fork, and placed everything on the table. Then he took an alert Rosie and said, “Eat.”

“I am an adult,” John said as he sat down. “I can feed myself.” And because Sherlock and Rosie continued to stare at him like he was an idiot, he ate the food in front of him. Sherlock then proceeded to tell John every single thing they’d done today, and while everything was interesting and John wanted to know what shenanigans they’d gotten up to, he was also exhausted both physically and emotionally—which is how he found himself being herded into his and Rosie’s room by Sherlock, who told John to get ready for bed while Sherlock dealt with Rosie’s nightly ablutions, and then fell asleep as his best friend sat in a rocking chair reading a children’s story to both the child and the father.

 

 

They didn’t talk about the kiss the next day. John was off work and a case came in, so they gallivanted around London to catch a criminal. That night John crashed hard after putting Rosie to bed, and when he woke it was later than he liked. Rosie was somewhere else, probably with Sherlock, so John hurried through his morning routine and dashed down the stairs. Sherlock was sitting in his chair and after a quick look, Rosie was sitting in John’s chair, and they were staring at each other. “Running late,” John said as he slipped on his shoes. He leaned down to kiss Rosie, who didn’t look up.

As he turned to go, a deep voice said, “What about me?”

John stopped mid-step and turned around: Sherlock and Rosie were still locked in a staring contest. John walked over to Sherlock, careful not to come between his child and his partner’s gaze, leaned down and would have kissed Sherlock on the head, except Sherlock turned his face and John found Sherlock’s lips instead. John paused a moment, hearing Rosie laughing in the background, then pressed his lips firmly on Sherlock’s and pulled back. Sherlock’s smile was lazy as he licked his lips, then he turned his attention back to Rosie and said, “You won, Watson.” Rosie giggled and made grabbing motions.

John jerked upright, remembering the secret Sherlock and Rosie were colluding over not too long ago. He picked up the gurgling baby, and said, his mouth tickling her tummy, “Congratulations; took me years to get one over on him.”

Sherlock stood, his jaw dropping in mock surprise. Before the insufferable git could say anything, John placed Rosie in his arms, kissed his baby girl one more time, wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s neck and pulled the taller man down into another kiss. Sherlock’s dazed look was the last thing John saw before he dashed out the door, a smile on his face and the taste of Sherlock on his lips. They could do this. It is what it is.

 

 

 


End file.
